


Casualty of War

by Caroh



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst, Family, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-13
Updated: 2015-10-11
Packaged: 2018-04-20 15:57:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 16,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4793573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caroh/pseuds/Caroh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aramis has been retrieved from the monastery and the Musketeers have reached the border with Spain. Will all survive the coming encounter with the enemy?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

Casualty of War  
Chapter One

The air was cold in the mountains at dawn. Athos sat up, pulling his cloak tighter around his body in a vain attempt to generate some warmth. He looked over to Aramis who was also stirring. After days of travel over arduous terrain the marksman was almost grey with fatigue. Too little sleep and inadequate rations had affected the whole regiment to the point that morale was at its lowest level since they had left Paris.

“The scouts should be back today,” Athos said.

“Perhaps then we can get out of this god forsaken wilderness,” Aramis replied.

“Perhaps.” Athos grunted with the effort of standing. His limbs felt heavy and unresponsive. He looked around the camp. The fires had burned to ash ensuring that they were fully aware of the chill and the early morning mist. Ironically once the sun rose to its full height they would be sweltering in their heavy leather uniforms. He reached inside his doublet for the barely adequate map of the region, studying it as he had many times over the preceding days.

“It isn't goin’ to tell you anythin’ you don't already know,” Porthos said, untangling himself from his blanket.

Athos sighed in irritation. “We know the Spanish have strongholds in this area. I just wish we knew where.”

Not having any comfort to offer Porthos just shook his head before stumbling off to relieve himself.

Lack of reliable intelligence was the bane of a commander’s existence and they had been waiting for two days for the scouts to return. During that time he had sent out small patrols to keep the men occupied and to ensure that they weren't flanked by a Spanish raiding party. So far they had seen no signs of the enemy. That didn't mean they were safe. These mountains belonged to Spain and her troops would know their way through the treacherous passes.

He nodded his thanks to d’Artagnan when the young man brought him a bowl of thin porridge and a hunk of hard bread. It was unappetizing but was necessary to keep up his strength. He dunked the bread in the gruel and took a bite.

“Riders approaching, Captain,” one of the sentries reported.

“To arms,” he ordered, his breakfast immediately forgotten.

The camp immediately came to life as every man drew sword or pistol and took up his pre-arranged position. Aramis took the high ground, lying down with his musket primed. Porthos and d’Artagnan stood steadfastly beside Athos, swords ready. They waited for agonizing minutes in a state of high alert until Aramis waved at them to indicate their visitors were friends.

Athos let out a relieved breath and sheathed his sword. Moments later the two scouts rode into camp, handing their horses over to the care of their colleagues and looking around for Athos. He beckoned them over and hunkered down to receive their report.

Aramis brought them food which they accepted gratefully. Athos gave them a few minutes to refresh themselves, conscious of the hardships they had endured.

“What news?” Athos asked once they had eaten.

“There's a small fortress guarding the pass,” Henri said before taking a final mouthful of porridge. “It's about ten miles ahead. After that the way is clear, at least as far as we traveled.”

“How many men does it hold?”

“Hard to say. We only watched it for a couple of hours. We could see men on the walls, no more than a dozen, but it's big enough to contain a sizeable force.”

“Is there a way past?”

“There is although it's a difficult route and means leaving an enemy at your rear.”

“Thank you, gentlemen. Get some rest and then prepare a full report.”

“What do you think?” Aramis asked.

“We need to know how many men are in that fortress. I propose to send out a small patrol to watch it.”

“Under my command,” d’Artagnan said hurriedly.

“It is dangerous to be so close to the enemy,” Athos cautioned.

“War is dangerous. I'm ready, Athos.”

“Very well. Pick half a dozen men and take Aramis with you. Your task is to watch, not to engage the enemy. Report back in two days. We can't delay any longer than that.” He had to work hard not to smile at the look of pleased surprise on d’Artagnan’s face. This was his first command although he had tempered that novelty by assigning Aramis to the force. If it came to it d’Artagnan would listen to the seasoned soldier.

While d’Artagnan readied his men Athos walked around the camp talking to as many of the soldiers as he could and keeping them informed of developments. There had been no shortage of men volunteering to accompany the young Gascon and no grumbling about his youth or inexperience. D’Artagnan was held in high regard by the rest of the men and not just because of his close ties with the Inseparables. 

“Remember your mission,” Athos said an hour later. He held d’Artagnan’s horse’s bridle while looking up to address the young man. “Make sure you are not seen. That means you will have to make a cold camp. You can’t risk any fires.”

“I know,” d’Artagnan said patiently. “Stop worrying, Athos.”

Athos bowed his head and stepped back. When he raised his eyes to meet Aramis’ steady gaze he was comforted by the fact that their marksman understood his role. He would follow d’Artagnan’s lead, offering advice only if absolutely necessary. Athos raised a hand in farewell, confident that he would see his brothers safely returned in two days.

TMTMTM

The patrol was guided to its destination by one of the scouts. When they were within a mile of the fortress they all dismounted and led their horses across the uneven granite hillside. D’Artagnan could hear the sound of rushing water off to his left and glanced in that direction.

“There is a waterfall not far from here,” the scout told him. “You should leave the rest of the men here with the horses. It’s a steep climb from now on if we are to avoid the road.”

D’Artagnan handed off his horse and gestured to Aramis to join him. “Post a guard. I’ll be back soon.”

Aramis nodded, not entirely happy at being left behind. The ground underfoot was treacherous as they scrambled up the steep bank. There was some cover provided by pine trees that clung precariously to the thin soil between the rocks but they quickly found themselves exposed as they climbed beyond the treeline. After they had been walking for fifteen minutes the scout indicated that d’Artagnan should drop to hands and knees. The remained of the journey was agonising as they crawled over the pebble strewn ground, the sharp edges digging into knees and palms.

“Lie flat,” the scout instructed. “We are almost at the cliff face. The fortress is straight ahead.”

D’Artagnan wriggled forward on his belly until he reached the edge of a steep drop. The fortress lay across a deep canyon, built into the rock. It was a rectangular building with towers at each corner. D’Artagnan could see the roadway as it meandered up to a solid wooden gate. There was the glint of sun off metal as the guards patrolled the walkway on the walls. From his position it was impossible to see into the structure.

“Are there any other vantage points?” he asked quietly.

The ridge they were on continued round to the west in a crescent shape, at times looping closer to the walls of the fortress. The scout pointed to an area of higher elevation several hundred feet away.

“It would give a better view but is very exposed,” he said. “You might be able to get someone up there at night without being seen but that man would have to stay there the entire day.”

He didn’t have to tell d’Artagnan how dangerous that would be given the fierce heat of the sun and the lack of any breeze at this elevation. D’Artagnan nodded to show he understood and began to back up. 

“We will leave a man here to watch the gate,” he said. “He will be relieved every two hours. Tonight we will get someone into position on that ridge.”

When they arrived back at the camp d’Artagnan sought out Aramis and explained the situation. 

“I will go,” Aramis said.

“I’m not asking you to do that.”

“I know but I am the obvious choice. My vision is excellent and my proficiency with a musket is unrivalled. If I am seen I will have a fighting chance of escaping because of my marksmanship.”

“You will be trapped there for the whole day. You risk heat stroke.”

“As would any man given this assignment. The risks are great but so is the reward if I can see into the compound. If we find that their force is small Athos can risk by-passing them. If they are more numerous we will have to find a way to tempt them out to fight us.”

“I wish there was another way.”

“You have made the right decision; the decision any commander would be forced to make. The health of one man is nothing when compared to the survival of many.”

“I know,” d’Artagnan whispered.

“You must not show your doubts to the men,” Aramis cautioned. “Give your orders and accept the consequences.”

They waited until the darkest hour of the night. The crescent moon provided little light and even that came and went as wisps of cloud crossed the sky. Aramis filled two flasks with water and shoved a handful of dried meat and biscuits into his pockets. He had already stripped, cleaned and loaded his musket and a brace of pistols and sharpened his sword and main gauche.

“Take care,” d’Artagnan said, coming to offer his hand.

“Always.” Aramis grinned. “Don’t worry little brother I will see you tomorrow night.”

TMTMTM

By the time the sun rose Aramis was in position. He couldn’t see the gate but had a clear view of the interior of the fortress. He kept low to the ground while he systematically surveyed every inch of the compound. Whatever was close to the front wall was hidden from him but he could see a small courtyard with stables and a blacksmith’s shop to the left. To the right appeared to be the barracks and a kitchen. At the rear of the courtyard was a sturdy stone building, access to which was up a wooden staircase. He couldn’t see behind the building and so couldn’t tell if there was another gate at the rear of the fortress. He was close enough to see the men walking to and fro but too far away to make out their features. It made it hard to reach an accurate count of numbers but he eventually concluded that there were no more than twenty-five Spaniards occupying the fortress.

As the sun rose higher he began to sweat heavily. He had chosen to wear his coat and hat to protect his face and neck and to provide a measure of camouflage. Slowly and carefully he unstoppered one of the flasks and took a sip of the tepid water. It was not yet mid-morning and he was already feeling the effects of the oppressive heat. He lowered his head, allowing the sun’s rays to beat on his hat and sighed heavily.

Several hours later and the sweat was running in rivulets down his back. He was feeling light-headed and sick. His water was now too warm to provide any comfort but he continued to force himself to take regular small sips. His muscles were cramping from hours lying in the same position and he had to hold back his piteous groans for fear of the sound carrying to the enemy. His only consolation was that no-one had spotted him although he was beginning to feel severely exposed.

When he stopped sweating he knew on an intellectual basis that this was a bad sign. However, he was having too much trouble staying conscious to be more than mildly concerned. His head ached and he found it hard to take more than shallow breaths. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest and then stuttering before rising in tempo again. His thoughts wandered and he began to mumble incoherently. He kept enough awareness to know that he needed to stay hidden although why he was lying on a sunbaked slab of rock utterly escaped him.

Night brought blessed relief from the virulence of the sun. He dozed restlessly and, on those rare occasions when he roused sufficiently to notice his surroundings, he was plagued with the feeling that he should be doing something. He woke to darkness and the realisation that he had to move. If he was still there when the sun rose again he would not survive. Coaxing his rebellious muscles was a challenge that almost undid him and, when he did succeed in crawling backwards, it was ungainly and uncoordinated.

He knew that he was desperately unwell but comforted himself with the knowledge that someone would come to find him. He managed to move far enough away to be out of sight of the fortress and rolled onto his back. He lay, staring at the moon and stars while the world tilted and revolved around him. It wasn’t until the moon started its slow descent to the horizon that it occurred to him that help should have arrived by now. Panic gripped him and he struggled to his feet, swaying unsteadily. He managed no more than a couple of steps before his stomach lurched and he was forced to his knees so that he could be sick. The retching lasted a long time, leaving a sour taste in his mouth. He fumbled for one of the flasks. The temperature of the water had cooled and it slid down his parched throat like the sweetest nectar. He rinsed his mouth and spat before sinking back on his haunches to wait for the dizziness to pass.

Giving up on the idea of walking he lowered himself onto his hands and knees and began to crawl. Even that was almost more than his sun battered body could tolerate. As he crawled slowly and painfully towards the Musketeer camp his mind kept asking him one question. Why had no-one come to find him?

Tbc


	2. Chapter Two

Casualty of War  
Chapter Two  
By the time the dawn came Aramis was too exhausted to go further. His head pounded incessantly and with every movement he was aware of bile rising in his throat. He had managed to descend as far as the tree line but, truthfully, he had no idea where he was. With his vision contracting alarmingly he couldn’t get any sense of his surroundings. As he lay panting on the uneven ground he heard the sound of water. The thought of immersing his aching body in an ice cold stream almost made him shiver with anticipation. Gathering his remaining strength he used the trunk of a pine tree to lever his body upright.  
The stream was no more than twenty feet away although it took him many minutes to reach it. He clumsily divested himself of his coat before tumbling down the bank and into the fast flowing water. Fortunately it was not deep otherwise he feared he would have drowned. He lay flat on his back on the rocky streambed while the water flowed round and over him, cooling his overheated skin. He groaned with pleasure as he scooped up handfuls of the cold liquid, pouring it over his face and then drinking his fill.  
When he began to shiver in earnest he knew it was time to move although the act itself seemed to almost be beyond his capabilities. He rolled over onto his stomach and got his knees and hands underneath him. The scramble up the steep bank leeched what little strength he had left so he lay there and embraced the darkness.  
His clothes were still damp when he woke and the sun was rising ever higher in the sky. Although his headache had reduced and he was once again sweating he knew that the danger had not passed. He returned to the stream to refill his flasks and then set out for the shelter of the trees. His legs trembled with every step he took and it was a relief to collapse to the ground and close his eyes.  
He waited out the worst of the heat knowing that it would be suicide to go stumbling around trying to find his way back to camp. All the time, though, his thoughts turned to the reasons why no-one had come to find him. There was only one possible explanation and it brought a chill to his soul. He clutched his crucifix and prayed that he was wrong.  
Once the fierce glare of the sun had begun to fade he stood up and began to look around for any landmarks. In the distance he could see an outcrop of rocks that looked familiar so he set off in that direction. He still felt weak although the dreadful lethargy of the previous night had left him. His footsteps were uncertain and more than once he stumbled and fell to the ground. As he rested after one such tumble he examined the torn and scraped skin on his hands. It would need attention if he were to avoid complications from the dirt. His medical kit was with his saddlebags back at the camp. What else was waiting for him there was something he was trying very hard not to contemplate.  
He became more cautious as he approached an area that he recognised. He was no more than a couple of hundred yards away from the camp and had not seen any sign of a sentry. He stood, listening carefully. He could hear birdsong but no voices. The fact that there were birds suggested that there was no danger but he wasn’t prepared to take any chances. He dropped to his hands and knees and crawled forward until he could get a look at what lay ahead. When he did, he had to resist the urge to vomit as he was assailed by the memory of events six years in the past.  
TMTMTM  
“They should ‘ave been back by now,” Porthos said. “You gave them two days and d’Artagnan knows better than to be late.”  
It was mid-morning on the third day since the patrol had been despatched and Porthos wasn’t alone in being worried. Athos had been watching the road and pacing restlessly around the camp since shortly after dawn.   
“I know.” Athos bit his bottom lip while he considered his options. He didn’t want to move his full force until he knew what lay ahead but neither could he ignore the fact that the patrol was overdue. “Fetch our horses,” he said. “We’ll go and find out what is keeping them.” He beckoned over the scout who had returned to camp after guiding d’Artagnan and his men. “Take us to them.”  
They kept their horses to a gentle trot in deference to the terrain. It meant that it took more than an hour to reach d’Artagnan’s camp. When they arrived Athos pulled harshly on the reins and leapt from his saddle, quickly making his way to where Aramis sat surrounded by bodies. Aramis looked up at him, his face slack and eyes dull.  
“What happened here?” Athos demanded. His gaze ranged over the six bodies, all of which were being attacked by swarms of flies. The smell in the heat of the day turned his stomach and he swallowed convulsively. He drew in a shuddering breath when he realised there was no sign of d’Artagnan. He reached down to squeeze Aramis’ shoulder, waiting until his friend focussed on his face. “Where’s d’Artagnan?”  
Aramis looked around uncertainly. “I don’t know.”  
With his typical efficiency Athos sent the scout back to the main camp for help and urged Aramis to move away from the killing ground. He and Porthos flanked the marksman who looked pale and unwell. Athos noticed that despite the heat Aramis was shivering. Once they were out of sight of the bodies he pressed Aramis down to the ground and placed his hand on his forehead.  
“You’re hot.”  
“I was watching the fortress,” Aramis said dully. “It was very exposed and the heat made me ill. It took me a night and a day to get back here. If I’d been quicker they might not be dead. When I found the horses were gone I knew I couldn’t make it back to you so I waited. All night I waited.”  
“You sat with them.” Porthos said, knowing the effect this would be having. Aramis had never fully recovered from spending days with twenty of his dead brothers. This would be just like one of his nightmares.  
“It didn’t seem right to leave them.” Aramis raised haunted eyes to his friend. “Who else was there to watch over them?”  
“This isn’t Savoy,” Athos said gently.  
Aramis flinched. “I know but you saw their wounds. They were killed while they slept.”  
“What about d’Artagnan?” Athos asked.  
“I looked everywhere and he is no-where to be found. Neither are his weapons.”  
“Maybe the whelp managed to escape,” Porthos said.  
“Then where is he? He wouldn’t abandon his men.”  
Athos bowed his head in acknowledgment. If d’Artagnan had got away he would inevitably have returned to the camp to check on his men. He knew, though, that his youngest brother would never abandon his command. He would have fought and died to protect his men. “You need to rest. Did you get any sleep last night?”  
Aramis shook his head and yawned. The tension that had surrounded him when they arrived had dissipated now that he was no longer alone.  
“Lie down and close your eyes. We will stand guard.”  
As if a great burden of responsibility had been lifted from his shoulders Aramis nodded and obediently curled up on the ground. It worried Athos more than he could say that his friend was being so compliant. Soon his breathing evened out and he slept. Athos and Porthos moved away so that they could talk without disturbing him.  
“What d’you think ‘appened?” Porthos asked.  
“They were clearly ambushed. If I were the Spanish commander I would have wanted at least one prisoner to interrogate.”  
“You think d’Artagnan’s been captured?”  
“That is our best hope. Either that or his body is lying somewhere and Aramis just didn’t find him.”  
“If he’s in that bloody fortress how do we get him out?”  
“That, my friend, is the question.”  
TMTMTM  
D’Artagnan lay in the filthy cell, the wound in his shoulder throbbing with unremitting pain. The chains around his wrists were securely anchored in the thick stone wall and prevented him moving more than a foot in any direction. He couldn’t be sure how long it had been since they threw him in here. There was one small barred window high in the wall and, from what little he could see, it was now daylight. His head ached from the blow that had finally felled him. He remembered standing on guard, worrying about Aramis. His friend should have returned hours before and he had been on the point of waking one of the men so that he could go and search when they were attacked. Men had swarmed out of the night, overwhelming him before he could so much as cry a warning. A sword thrust to the shoulder had been quickly followed by a sharp pain in the back of his head.   
Worry for his men and for Aramis consumed him. That he was here alone did not bode well for the fate of the men who had been with him. His first command had ended in disaster and he felt keenly the disappointment of having let Athos down. Aramis’ absence could either be a blessing or a sign that his brother had perished alone and believing himself to have been abandoned.  
He had mostly been left alone since his capture. Food and water arrived intermittently and some attempt had been made to clean and bandage his wound. Presumably they didn’t want him to die before they could question him. That thought made his heart beat faster. He was not immune to the effects of pain should they decide to torture him but he knew he couldn’t allow himself to break. The success or failure of their mission depended upon his ability to keep his mouth shut. It was not a heartening thought.  
He had no expectation of rescue and the thought that he would never see his brothers or Constance again brought him close to tears. He angrily shook his head, immediately regretting it as the pain flared up again. He couldn’t allow any shred of weakness to show. He’d be damned before he gave his captors any leverage over him.  
As he waited in miserable solitude he wondered if Athos had yet learnt of his fate. It would be hard for his brothers to bear yet what could they do to help? He was imprisoned in an impregnable fortress many miles inside the Spanish border. Athos couldn’t risk a pitched battle to attempt a rescue. The fate of the entire regiment could not be imperilled because of one man.   
He huddled back against the wall, trying to ignore the pain of his wounds, both physical and mental. This wait to be interrogated was wearing on his nerves, undoubtedly intentionally. They wanted him stressed almost to breaking point before the questioning began. He took three deep breaths, distraught to feel their unevenness. Never had so much responsibility rested with him. In that moment of blackest despair he made a vow. He wouldn’t betray his brothers.  
Tbc


	3. Chapter Three

Casualty of War  
Chapter Three  
“What is your name and regiment?” Major Huerta, the Commander of Fort Villalba de los Alcores asked his prisoner patiently.  
Despite his best intentions d’Artagnan’s efforts to stand to attention were a miserable failure. Between the pain in his shoulder, the dizziness from the head injury and a strong urge to be sick all over the Major’s immaculately clean desk he was barely holding himself together.  
“Your men are dead. Who is there left to protect?”  
D’Artagnan’s throat closed and he had to swallow several times to clear it. His fears had proved true and it was no easier to bear than the uncertainty had been. Heartsick, he thought of Aramis, wondering if his brother still lived. He had let everyone down and there was nothing that could ease his conscience.  
“I am not an uncivilized man,” the Major continued. “But, I will order the use of force if necessary.” There was a heavy sigh when d’Artagnan’s silence continued. “You have already suffered. Is more pain really necessary? Tell me what you know and I guarantee you will spend the rest of the war in comfort in Madrid.”  
He caught himself swaying and stiffened his back, his unfocussed gaze fixed on a point over the Major’s left shoulder.  
“Very well. It gives me no pleasure but I must fulfill my duty to my country.”  
“As must I.” d’Artagnan finally met the Major’s gaze, hoping that his apprehension was well hidden.  
“You are brave…and very foolish.” Huerta turned to his second-in-command, Captain Ochoa. “Take him away. Bring word once he is ready to talk.”  
They took him to a large empty room. The Captain was accompanied by two muscular soldiers who exuded the aura of cruelty and violence. Clearly they didn’t share the same delicacy of feeling as their commanding officer. D’Artagnan backed away, adrenalin temporarily overcoming the pain of his wounds. His left arm was useless, any unguarded movement sending debilitating shards of agony from shoulder to fingertips. He kept it tight against his body as he readied himself for their assault.  
The two men moved in tandem, one his right and the other on his left. He managed one punch before their blows rained down on him. He was quickly driven to his knees and from there to the floor. At no point did the Captain ask a question and d’Artagnan knew this was just a foretaste of what awaited him. They were trying to wear him down before starting the interrogation. They gave up hitting him and began to kick him instead. He tried to curl inward to protect his shoulder but a well-placed boot connected with it and he cried out for the first time. The pain was so intense that his mind couldn’t fathom it and he gratefully fell into the black hole of unconsciousness.  
TMTMTM  
Aramis woke when more men arrived to bury the dead. Athos bullied him onto a horse and took him back to the main camp. Once there he plied the marksman with copious amounts of water and tended to his abraded palms. When he tried to press food on him Aramis baulked.  
“The heat is still in my blood,” Aramis explained dully. “If I eat I fear the consequences will not be pretty.”  
Athos conceded although he remained unconvinced. “Our comrades are being buried,” he said. “You are not alone this time, my brother.”  
Some of the flush left Aramis’ cheeks and he lowered his head. “I know.” The words were imbued with gratitude. “I knew you would come to find us.” He shuddered and raised his head. “Where is Porthos?”  
“He is looking for d’Artagnan although we believe him to be held captive inside the fortress.”  
“He’s alive?” A spark of life returned to his eyes.  
“In the absence of a body we believe so.”  
“We must find a way to rescue him,” Aramis said, his tone laced with urgency.  
“That will not be easy. Tell me what you saw.”  
“Fetch me pencil and paper.” When Athos complied Aramis began to sketch out what he could remember of the interior. “No entrance other than the main gate although I could not see the rear of the compound.” Aramis sat up straighter, more energy running through his body now that he had a purpose. “There are approximately twenty-five men inside so we have by far the greater force.”  
“Which will only avail us if we can get within the walls.”  
“You can’t leave them at your back.”  
“Neither can we leave d’Artagnan in their hands. He knows too much about our plans.”  
“He will not betray us,” Aramis said in defence of their absent brother.  
“We can’t know that. He has never been interrogated before.”  
Aramis accepted the truth of that statement, understanding that Athos was not belittling their youngest. The pain and humiliation of torture was hard to withstand and d’Artagnan was not yet a hardened soldier. Yet, in his heart, he knew d’Artagnan would suffer unto death to keep their plans secret. “We faced a similar problem with General De Foix.”  
“Rochefort set us up to fail in that rescue.”  
“Yet we prevailed.”  
“De Foix died,” Athos reminded him. “And the men inside that fortress will be on their guard now that they have encountered the enemy.”  
“Which is why we need a more subtle approach,” Aramis said thoughtfully.  
Athos raised an eyebrow. “What do you have in mind?”  
TMTMTM  
He woke in his cell. They hadn’t bothered to chain him again. What was the point when he could barely move? He lay in an ungainly heap and tried to assess his injuries. His right eye was swollen shut and there was a split to his bottom lip that still bled sluggishly. That told him that he hadn’t been unconscious for long. His headache had intensified to a point where he could barely think. The shoulder wound was bleeding again, staining the dirty bandage a bright red. Breathing was painful thanks to a couple of kicks to the ribs, but they didn’t feel broken. In fact none of his bones were broken, for which he was exceedingly thankful.  
His body was a mass of bruises though, each throbbing in time to his heartbeat. He cradled his left arm to try and relieve the pressure on his shoulder and contemplated standing up. Regretfully he accepted that was beyond him at present so he contented himself with shuffling backwards to sit against the wall.  
He wondered if Athos had found the bodies of his slain comrades yet. What would his mentor think? Would Athos work out that he’d been taken prisoner or would he think his body lay in some remote location as fodder for carrion? He could imagine the older man’s anguish as he made the only decision he could which was to continue with the mission. If Aramis had perished as well the Captain would be a broken man and Porthos would be beyond devastated. Would they take less care for their own safety now that their brotherhood was sundered? And, it was all because he had failed in his duty to his men.  
He flinched involuntarily when the door opened and peered blearily as one of his tormentors entered the cell. The man carried a bucket and, after advancing to within a few feet of d’Artagnan, he hurled the contents over him. Ice cold water drenched him pulling an unwilling gasp from his lips. He had been stripped of his uniform, leaving him in his bloodstained shirt and breeches. The thin linen of his shirt stuck to his skin and water from his soaked hair ran in rivulets down his face. He began to shiver.  
The guard laughed and left him alone, the heavy wooden door crashing shut. D’Artagnan heard the key grating in the lock. As the cold seeped into his muscles he gritted his teeth and prayed for an ending.  
TMTMTM  
“No!” Athos said, his sentiment echoed by Porthos who sat close beside their marksman. “You have nothing to atone for.” He didn’t miss the guilty look that crept over Aramis’ face.  
“You’re wrong but this has nothing to do with atonement,” Aramis said, unable to meet his friend’s steady gaze. “The only way to get into that fortress is to have someone on the inside to open the gates. Even then it is a gamble.”  
“You are unwell,” Athos pointed out. He didn’t need to elaborate. Aramis was physically compromised but of more concern was his mental state.  
“I will endure. I would not do anything to jeopardize d’Artagnan’s safety,” Aramis said reproachfully. “I am a soldier. I know my duty. Come now, my friends, you know it is a risk worth taking and I am the only one here who can pass as a Spaniard.”  
“If they find out you’re a French soldier you’ll be executed as a spy,” Porthos said aggressively.  
“I am aware of the risks.”  
“You are not going on your own,” Athos said. “If I am going to agree to this suicidal scheme you will take Porthos with you.”  
Aramis shook his head. “Porthos doesn’t speak Spanish. He would be a liability.” He shot his friend an apologetic look.  
“Nevertheless, that is my condition,” Athos said. “No-one will believe an envoy from the Spanish Ministry of War would travel without a guard. You can teach Porthos some basic phrases but no-one will be paying him any attention. He will just be one more lowly foot soldier.”  
“Athos…” He trailed off when he saw the implacable look on the Captain’s face. “As you wish.”  
“Good. We have a few hours until sundown. Go and work out the details.”  
Aramis unbuckled his pauldron and slipped it from his arm. He held it reverently for a moment before holding it out to Athos. “Look after it for me.”  
Athos took it and nodded. This scheme was much against his better judgement. Aramis was weak from heat exhaustion and riddled with guilt at once again surviving a massacre. It was a recipe for disaster yet it was also their only hope. Condemned by his responsibilities to stay behind, Athos could only hope this endeavor wasn’t going to cost him all three of his brothers.  
Tbc


	4. Chapter Four

Casualty of War  
Chapter Four  
“Are you sure?” Athos clung to the bridle of Aramis’ horse as if by sheer force of will he could keep his ailing brother in the relative safety of their camp.  
“Yes.” Aramis adjusted the plain leather jerkin he was wearing in place of his uniform. “D’Artagnan is in mortal danger. How can we abandon him?”  
“We will come up with another plan.”  
“This is the only way. You know that.” He smiled as Porthos rode up to join them. The large man just looked grim.  
“I wish I could go with you,” Athos said, the weight of his responsibilities suddenly feeling too heavy to bear.  
“You have larger responsibilities now. Just make sure the men are ready when the gates open.”  
“Be careful,” Athos begged  
Aramis’ smile faded. He had every confidence in his plan but not in his ability to survive it. However, admitting that to Athos would only result in the Captain withdrawing his reluctant permission. “Porthos will look after me.”  
“Damn right I will.” Porthos was no happier than Athos. He was armed to the teeth, that being his standard response to dangerous uncertainty. In addition to his sword and main gauche he carried another knife and two pistols.  
“It’s time to go.” Aramis leaned down to clasp Athos’ hand. “We will see you soon.”  
Athos nodded and stood back. Although their plan was simple, the execution of it was extremely dangerous. Merely riding up to the gate and requesting permission to enter wasn’t an option. So, they’d had to be creative.  
TMTMTM  
Aramis spurred his horse into a gallop just before rounding the curve in the road that would bring them within sight of the fortress. He heard the pounding of hooves behind him and then the sound of pistols being discharged. He ducked even though he knew the guns were not loaded. Porthos kept pace with him as they drew ever closer to their destination.  
By now the guards would see two men fleeing from a troop of soldiers. It would be unexpected and confusing and they could choose to shoot rather than stop to find out what was going on. Their rescue attempt could be over before it had truly begun.  
“Open the gates,” Aramis yelled in Spanish. The Musketeers had orders to stop outside the range of the Spanish rifles which would leave him and Porthos stranded before the fortress. “Help us,” he shouted. They were almost at the drawbridge which spanned a small moat.   
More shots were fired by their pursuers and the gates started to open. There wasn’t even time for a feeling of relief before they were plunging to a halt in the courtyard, the gate closing firmly behind them. Shots sounded from the battlements before there was a ragged cheer. Aramis assumed the Musketeers had retreated leaving the Spanish with the illusion of victory. When he looked around he found they were surrounded by armed soldiers, all of whom looked decidedly twitchy. He raised his hands trusting Porthos to follow his lead.  
“My name is Gabriel Ramirez. I come from the Ministry of War in Madrid with news for your commanding officer. But first, gentlemen, I must thank you for the rescue.” There was a miniscule lessening of the tension in the face of his heartfelt gratitude.  
“You have proof?” one of the soldiers asked.  
“I do not have to answer to you,” Aramis said haughtily. “My words are for your commander’s ears alone.” As he expected the soldier backed down in the face of his obvious authority. It would be a brave man who would question orders from the Minister.  
“You will dismount and surrender your weapons.” The man turned to one of his younger colleagues. “Send word to Major Huerta.”  
Aramis did as instructed, shaking his head when Porthos looked mutinous. They were detained in the courtyard until the soldier returned.   
“I am to escort you to the Major. This way, Sir.”  
They were taken to the building Aramis had seen during his vigil. It was a substantial stone-built construction, the interior of which was pleasantly cool. Aramis closed his eyes as a wave of dizziness assailed him. It was no-where near as bad as it had been but he was still less than fighting fit. He caught Porthos glaring at him, frustrated by his enforced silence. Aramis had no doubt that was all that was saving him from a stern lecture about taking more care of his health.  
The Major’s office was simply furnished with a sturdy wooden desk and chair. However there was a crucifix hanging on the wall behind him and Aramis automatically bowed his head and made the sign of the cross. His fingers sought out his crucifix before he dropped his hand to his side.   
Major Huerta looked to be in his forties and, to Aramis’ experienced eye, he did not look like a career soldier. He was impeccably dressed with his greying hair tied back from his face.  
“Senor Ramirez, your arrival here was somewhat unorthodox.”  
Aramis stepped forward with Porthos a few steps behind. “Captain Ramirez,” he said. “I am an attaché to the Minister for War.”  
“You have despatches from Madrid?”  
“Verbal only.”  
Huerta frowned at him. “Then how do I know you are who you claim to be?”  
“Your men will tell you that we arrived ahead of a troop of French soldiers who sought to take us captive. It was precisely because of that danger that the Minister did not want to commit anything to writing.”  
“Very well, Captain. What is your message?”  
“The Minister sends his regards and says to tell you that troops are marching to fortify this position. Already the French seek to find a way through these mountains and this is a crucial location which must be defended at all costs.”  
Huerta nodded thoughtfully. “We have already engaged with a small force of French soldiers. They were no match for my men.”  
Aramis stiffened his back to avoid swaying. Prolonged standing was proving to be problematic. He saw the Major watching him thoughtfully.  
“You look a little unwell, Captain.”  
“It is nothing. Merely tiredness from a trying ride.”  
“Then you should rest. I will have you shown to a room and provided with refreshments. Your man can bunk down in the dormitory.”  
“He remains with me,” Aramis said hurriedly. He couldn’t risk Porthos being alone amongst the Spanish with no knowledge of their language.  
The Major looked surprised but didn’t press the issue. “As you wish. You will join me for dinner.”   
Aramis bowed. “It will be my pleasure.” He wanted to ask about d’Artagnan but this was not the opportune moment. Huerta hadn’t said anything about a prisoner and he would only raise suspicions by asking questions.   
One of the soldiers showed them to a small room containing a narrow bed, a straight backed chair and a small table. Porthos waited until the man had gone before groaning and sitting on the edge of the bed.  
“What was all that about?” he asked.  
“We seem to have been accepted without too many questions. I have been invited to dinner.”  
“What about me?”  
“You, my dear Porthos, will guard my back.”  
“Did he say anything about d’Artagnan?” Porthos looked less than impressed by the fact that he would have to stand and watch while Aramis ate.  
“He mentioned running into some French soldiers but said nothing about taking a captive.”  
“We can’t go openin’ the gates until we know where d’Artagnan is bein’ held.”  
“Assuming he is here,” Aramis said somberly. They were still working on hope and supposition. There was no proof that their brother still lived.  
“He’s here.”  
“Well, I will find out what I can over dinner.” He sank down onto the uncomfortable chair. “For now we should take the opportunity to rest.”  
TMTMTM  
The shivering was becoming more intense as the cold seeped into his bones. He wrapped his arms around his body, trying to conserve what little body heat he had left. He would have welcomed unconsciousness. Unfortunately his body had other ideas. His agony kept him anchored to an awareness of his surroundings. A small whimper escaped his lips, the only sound of distress he would allow himself. He wondered what his brothers were doing and if they prematurely mourned his death. He could imagine Athos being frantic with worry and with the knowledge that nothing could be done to help him. Aramis would try to console the older man even though his own heart would be breaking. Porthos would be the quiet strength, someone the other two could rely upon for support. But in the end all three of them would break apart with grief at the very time when they needed to be focussed on their mission. Once again he cursed his carelessness. Not only had it resulted in his capture, it had also sealed a death sentence for six of his comrades.  
When the door opened he barely had the strength to lift his head. A guard entered and threw a dish and a flask on the ground. The dish contained a small loaf of bread and a slab of cheese that had gone mouldy around the edges. His stomach roiled at the thought of food although he knew he had to eat to maintain his strength.   
“Your hospitality is somewhat lacking,” he said. He didn’t know if the man understood him but his words earned him a quick kick to the shin.  
Once he was left alone he crawled over to the flask and pulled out the stopper. He drank deeply of the sweet water, groaning with pleasure as it slid down his parched throat. With reluctance he sealed the flask again. It would be foolish to drink it all now when it could be many hours before he was given any more. The bread was surprisingly fresh, although it settled in his stomach like a stone. He removed the mould from the cheese which was strong tasting and barely palatable to him in his unsettled state.  
Once he had finished he returned to his corner and lay down. The sky outside the small window had turned dark and he hoped that would mean he would be left alone until the morning. He closed his eyes and tried to sleep.  
TMTMTM  
They had been joined for dinner by Captain Ochoa and Aramis had taken an immediate dislike to him. The meaning of the Captain’s surname was wolf and he had the gait and demeanour of a predator. Aramis had the feeling that he was the real source of power in the fortress. If d’Artagnan had been left in his charge there was every chance that the young man was badly hurt.  
The first course was a thick vegetable soup. As soon as the dish was laid in front of him Aramis realised how hungry he was. In fact, he couldn’t remember when he had last eaten. He could practically hear Porthos’ stomach rumbling as the large man was forced to stand to attention against the wall. The soup was accompanied by fresh bread and Aramis ate heartily. The wine, however, was a medium bodied white vintage which didn’t suit him at all. He sipped at it sparingly and hoped for something better to accompany the main course.  
A large joint of pork, potatoes and vegetables arrived next. While they ate they spoke of inconsequential things such as the scorching weather and the difficulty of growing crops in the fortress’s vegetable garden given the arid conditions. Supplies from Madrid where slow to arrive and Aramis promised to speak to the Minister about that problem. The wine in his opinion continued to be poor but it was better than nothing. During their march they had made do with water.  
Cheese and biscuits was accompanied by a fine brandy and Aramis lounged back in his chair, sated and more relaxed than he had expected. He was aware of the Captain looking at him with suspicion and chose to ignore it.  
“How are things in Madrid?” Ochoa asked as the meal ended.  
“There is much unrest,” Aramis said, hoping that the citizens of Madrid were reacting to the war the same way as those in Paris. It was unlikely that Ochoa or Huerta had spent any time in the capital recently but he had to tread warily. “The treasury is drained by the war effort and food is scarce.”  
“Yet the people must know that our cause is just,” Huerta said naively. “It was the French King who declared war without reason.”  
“That isn’t entirely true,” Aramis said, his thoughts flying back to those horrendous days when Rochefort took control of the King and court. He still had nightmares about his time in prison and how close the madman had come to murdering the Queen. “There was a Spanish spy in the King’s household who very nearly brought down the monarchy.”  
“You seem to know a great deal about the goings on in another country,” Ochoa said, his brown eyes boring into Aramis.  
“Before I went to work for the Minister I was in the employ of spymaster Vargas,” Aramis said smoothly. “He had high hopes for the Comte de Rochefort. Then, of course, Vargas disappeared. Rumour has it that he is a prisoner of the French. He was a great loss and our sources of information have been greatly affected by his absence.” That at least was true. Vargas was languishing in a French prison and would be lucky to ever taste freedom again.  
“We might be able to help with that,” Huerta said. “When we encountered the French recently we captured one of their number.”  
Aramis sensed Porthos moving closer and hoped his friend was taking care not to show too much interest. He took a sip of his brandy before speaking. “Has he talked?”  
“Not yet.” Ochoa gave a cold smile. “But, he will. He is injured and my men dealt out a great deal of punishment today. Tomorrow the questioning will start.”  
“I would be interested in seeing this man for myself,” Aramis said. He was amazed that he managed to keep his hatred from his voice. Ochoa had tortured his brother and clearly enjoyed doing it. “Any information that he can give would be useful to the war effort.” The thought of standing idly by and watching d’Artagnan be interrogated made him feel sick and he knew he had to get out of there before he gave himself away. “Thank you for a splendid dinner,” he said to the Major. “If you will excuse me, I will retire for the night. Perhaps some food could be sent to my room so that my man can eat?”  
“He is welcome to join the others in the refectory,” Huerta said.  
Aramis kept his expression neutral as he nodded. “Thank you, Major.” It would have aroused too much suspicion to insist yet now Porthos would be alone and adrift in a sea of enemies without any way to communicate. This was exactly what he had feared when Athos insisted on Porthos accompanying him. He stood, bowed to the Major, and led the way from the room.  
Tbc


	5. Chapter Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I struggled a little with this chapter because the dialogue moves between French and Spanish. I hope it isn't too confusing and that you can figure it out given the context of the scene.

Casualty of War  
Chapter Five  
After leaving the dining room Aramis led Porthos away from the door. “D’Artagnan is alive and, as we thought, a prisoner,” he said softly.  
“Where is he?”  
“Keep your voice down,” he cautioned. “That I haven’t been able to ascertain yet. They will question him again tomorrow.”  
“Torture,” Porthos said flatly.  
“Yes,” Aramis admitted. “I will be there and will do what I can to alleviate his suffering.”  
“I don’t like the idea of leaving the whelp in their hands.”  
“Neither do I but until we find him it is too risky to try opening the gates.”  
The door opened and Captain Ochoa joined them in the hallway. “I have some questions about your escape from the French today. It might provide useful information for when we interrogate the prisoner.”  
“Can’t it wait until tomorrow?”  
“I’m afraid not,” Ochoa said firmly. “There’s no need for your man to stay. He can go and get his dinner.”  
Recognising that he was in an impossible position Aramis nodded. “You can go to the refectory and eat,” he said. Fortunately the words for refectory in French and Spanish were similar enough that he was confident his message would be understood.  
“Si,” Porthos mumbled before turning and striding off.  
It was late enough that the hallways were empty much to Porthos’ relief. He reached his destination without mishap and found a cauldron of stew bubbling over the fire. He picked up a bowl and filled it, his stomach rumbling in anticipation. He had almost reached the door when two Spanish soldiers walked in. With a fierce glower Porthos made to go around them but they blocked his route.  
“Good evening,” one of the soldiers said.  
Porthos recognised the phrase from the brief lesson he had received from Aramis. “Evening.”  
“Join us.”  
He had no idea what had just been said to him and racked his brain for something to say. “Excuse me.” He stepped to the side and, to his relief, they moved out of his way. “Good night,” he said in barely adequate Spanish and hastily exited the room. His stomach was tied in a knot until he turned a corner and realised that they hadn’t followed him. He had been convinced that he had said or done something to arouse their suspicions. He reached their room expecting Aramis to be there and was surprised to find it empty. With a shrug of his shoulders he sat down and began to eat.  
TMTMTM  
“How many French soldiers did you see?” Ochoa asked.  
“I didn’t exactly stop to count them.”  
Ochoa sneered at him. “Did you see any insignia?”  
“I’ve already told you, they sprang out on us from ambush and our only thought was escape.”  
“The guards report seeing at least a dozen men chasing you. It’s a wonder you were able to evade them.” Ochoa’s contempt was almost palpable.  
“We are not unskilled with sword and pistol and our horses are fleet of foot.”  
“You were fortunate that none of their shots hit their target,” Ochoa continued.  
“We had luck and God on our side,” Aramis said piously.  
“So it would seem. Still it’s a pity you have no further information. Our prisoner is being extremely obdurate. Harsh treatment will be necessary to break him.”  
Aramis inclined his head so that Ochoa wouldn’t see the hatred shining in his eyes. “I’m sure your methods are most effective.”  
“I like to think so. Perhaps you can offer some guidance. You must have learnt much from working with Senor Vargas.”  
“Alas, I wasn’t involved in his interrogations. My role was to gather the information once he had broken the prisoner.”  
“A pity. Still, we will do our best.”  
“If that is all, Captain? I confess to being wearied by the events of the day.”  
“Of course. I will see you in the morning.”  
Aramis watched the Captain walk away with murder in his heart.  
TMTMTM  
D’Artagnan was woken from his uneasy slumber by another dousing in cold water. His eyes flew open and then closed again of their own volition. Several kicks to his legs brought him reluctantly back to awareness. He looked blearily at the open door where he could just make out the figures of two men standing there. He turned his head away with a weary sigh.  
“He’s injured.”  
Although he couldn’t understand the words he thought the voice sounded familiar. However he didn’t have the energy to pursue the thought.  
“Why should that concern you?”  
He cringed away from that voice. Captain Ochoa had watched his beating with unconcealed pleasure.  
“He can’t answer your questions if he is dead.”  
Someone knelt at his side and he pulled away from the fingers probing his shoulder. “Shush. I am here to help.”  
The voice was soothing so he stilled his fitful movements.  
“For someone who worked for Vargas you have a surprisingly delicate stomach. His cruelty was legendary.”  
“That’s true but he also knew the value of a live prisoner.”  
The more the man spoke the more certain d’Artagnan became that he knew him. With an effort he raised his head and found himself staring into Aramis’ concerned brown eyes. His first thought was he must be delirious and then he realised that his brother must also be a captive. Dismay was mingled with relief that Aramis was still alive and he opened his mouth to speak.  
“Keep still. I am going to tend to your wound,” Aramis said quickly, speaking French for the first time.  
“You know their language?” Ochoa asked.  
“It was necessary to learn it,” Aramis replied.  
D’Artagnan tried to understand what was going on. If Ochoa didn’t know that Aramis was a French soldier that meant his friend was here under false pretenses. The thought that this might be a prelude to rescue filled his head, followed quickly by concern that Aramis would risk his life to save him.  
“What is your name?” Aramis asked.  
The reply was on the tip of his tongue but he knew he couldn’t reveal any information after so stubbornly remaining silent. He shook his head and lowered his eyes.  
“I need warm water, clean cloths and dry bandages,” Aramis ordered. He started to unwind the sodden material covering the wound. D’Artagnan knew what he was going to find. It wasn’t only the cold water that was causing him to shiver.  
Aramis was filled with scorching anger at the state of his little brother yet there was a limit to what he could do to help. He gently pealed the bandage away, suppressing a curse at what was revealed. “It is infected. If it isn’t treated he won’t be of any use to you.” The edges of the wound were red and it wept a foul smelling pus. “Bring me some brandy. I need to flush it out.”  
“We are wasting time,” Ochoa protested. “We know there are more French out there. It is imperative that we find out their strength.”  
“Look at him,” Aramis said. “Do you think him capable of answering your questions?” d’Artagnan’s eyelids were drooping and there were bright spots of colour on both cheeks. “Surely you can wait long enough for me to clean out the wound.”  
“You have an hour.” Ochoa turned and walked from the cell leaving two guards behind.  
“Brandy,” Aramis said again. He turned his attention back to d’Artagnan, wishing he had some comfort he could offer the young man. When the supplies arrived he soaked a cloth in brandy and held it to the wound. D’Artagnan whimpered and bit his bottom lip. “I’m sorry,” Aramis said. “This is necessary if I am going to save your life.”  
Next Aramis washed the wound carefully. “It is too raw to stitch,” he said. “If we keep it covered it should close on its own.” He picked up the flask of brandy and held it to d’Artagnan’s lips. “This will help with the pain.”  
D’Artagnan closed his mouth and shook his head. Aramis silently cursed the Gascon’s stubbornness even though he could understand it. Alcohol had a tendency to loosen the tongue and d’Artagnan was clearly not willing to risk it.  
“There is nothing I can do for your other injuries,” he said as he wound the bandage around d’Artagnan’s shoulder. “Neither can I save you from Captain Ochoa’s questioning.” He saw acceptance and resolve in d’Artagnan’s fever bright eyes. “There is no shame in answering their questions,” he added.   
“I swore an oath of loyalty to my King,” d’Artagnan said proudly. “I won’t betray it.”  
They came for him shortly after that, dragging his unresisting body from the cell and taking him to the room where he had been beaten the previous day. This time he wasn’t left free. His wrists were encased in shackles at the end of chains suspended from the ceiling. The pain it caused his shoulder was excruciating and he had to fight not to lose consciousness.   
Captain Ochoa sat on a chair with Aramis standing behind him. “We know there are more French in the mountains. How many and what is their intent? Do they seek to by-pass us or will they attack?”  
D’Artagnan’s head drooped until his chin was resting on his chest. He made no effort to look up. The first blow from a wooden club caught him squarely in the stomach. He immediately felt bile rushing up his throat and spat to clear his mouth. That earned him a second blow which stole all the wind from his lungs.  
“He can’t answer you if he is unable to speak.”  
Aramis sounded panicked so d’Artagnan struggled to lift his head in an effort to send a silent message to his brother. The look of horror on Aramis’ face was almost enough to destroy him. He could imagine how hard it was to watch this torture and they had barely even begun.   
Ochoa gestured to the guard who swung the club again. This time it connected with his wounded shoulder and he howled in agony. Consciousness fled for a time until he felt fingers digging into his chin and raising his head.   
“Answer the questions,” Ochoa said.   
D’Artagnan held his gaze as long as he could but he couldn’t sustain his defiance. “No,” he whispered hoarsely.  
“This is unproductive,” Aramis said, his voice tight with emotion.  
“You’re right.” Ochoa released his grip. “Get him down.”  
D’Artagnan’s relief was short lived. He was hauled across the floor and dropped to his knees. In front of him was a deep bucket filled with water. Before he had a chance to work out what was going to happen his head was forced down into the water. Hands on his shoulders and head easily quelled his panicked struggles. He held his breath for as long as he could, feeling a burning in his lungs. Just as his air was about to give out the pressure on his head was removed. He emerged coughing and spluttering and trying to catch his breath. It seemed mere seconds later before he was submerged again. This time they kept him there until his vision began to grey and he was forced to take a breath. Water rushed into his nose and mouth before he was pulled back up. He began to retch, spewing water over the boots of the soldiers holding him in place.  
“Stop it! You’re killing him.”  
D’Artagnan sagged in the grip of his guards, fearing that if they forced his head underwater a third time he wouldn’t survive.  
“I will stop when he tells me what I want to know,” Ochoa said coldly. “Again.”  
“This is barbaric,” Aramis yelled.  
There was the sound of a scuffle before a hand pressed on the back of his head and water closed over his face one again.  
Tbc


	6. Chapter Six

Casualty of War  
Chapter Six  
It was only the unexpectedness of his actions that allowed Aramis to get as far as he did. He lunged for the guard holding d’Artagnan’s head under water. Although he didn’t reach his goal it was enough to startle the man into letting go of his captive. The young man surfaced and rolled away from the bucket, coughing and wheezing.  
Aramis meanwhile struggled with the other guard who was a match in size for Porthos and equally strong. He was quickly overwhelmed when Ochoa joined the fray. A blow to the stomach doubled him over and allowed the guard to take a firm grip on his arms. A fist to the face sent him reeling, only saved from collapse by the hands restraining him. He stood breathing heavily and raised his head warily. Ochoa’s face was dark with anger.  
“What are you doing?” the Captain demanded.  
“I won’t watch while you kill him,” Aramis said hoarsely as he tried to pull air into his lungs.  
“He is an enemy soldier. Why should you care?”  
“We are not animals.” He stared defiantly at the Captain.  
“You can explain yourself to Major Huerta.” Ochoa turned away and prodded d’Artagnan with the toe of his boot. “Take this one back to his cell. We will continue later.”  
Aramis closed his eyes in relief. He had at least bought d’Artagnan some time to recover, but at what cost? Had his precipitous actions just sabotaged their escape attempt? He felt no remorse though. He couldn’t stand idly by and watch his brother drown. He twisted his head to look at his youngest brother who was barely moving except for the harsh coughs that racked his body.  
He was manhandled out of the room and down the hallway. Soldiers they passed looked at the scene curiously but made no move to intervene. His one source of comfort was that fact that Porthos hadn’t been present. He hoped his friend was still free and gathering the intelligence they would need to escape.  
Ochoa didn’t bother to knock on the Major’s door. He burst into the room with Aramis and his guard on his heels. Aramis was pulled to a halt just inside the door. His arms felt like they were locked in a vise, leaving him with no chance of breaking free.  
“What is the meaning of this?” Huerta asked. He took in Aramis’ dishevelled appearance and the bruise forming on the marksman’s jaw and frowned in puzzlement.  
“Captain Ramirez interfered in the interrogation of the prisoner,” Ochoa said.  
Aramis stood quietly and tried not to look like a threat. “I can explain.” His guard gave him a harsh shaking to shut him up.  
“Let him go,” Huerta said irritably.  
The hands restraining him were removed and he ran a hand through his disordered hair. He could already feel the bruises forming on his upper arms.  
“Explain yourself,” Huerta demanded.  
“It was clear the prisoner wasn’t going to talk and they were killing him.”  
“The interrogation had barely begun,” Ochoa protested.  
“What can he tell you that you don’t already know?” Aramis asked. “You see how young he is. It’s likely he’s a raw recruit who wouldn’t know what their commander has planned.”  
“Young doesn’t mean he’s ignorant,” Ochoa said, glaring at Aramis with palpable dislike.  
Aramis refused to allow himself to become flustered. “We know there are French soldiers out there and it’s likely to be a sizeable number. Think about their choices. This fortress is impregnable. Do you think they can afford to take the time to starve you out? No. They must either advance or retreat and I don’t imagine their King would approve of the latter option. Let them pass and then send men to harass their rear,” he said assertively.  
“You seem to know a lot about military strategy,” Ochoa said, suspicion clear on his face.  
“I served for many years. What I have told you is only common sense. Hide behind your walls until the opportune moment.”  
“I will consider what you have said. Captain Ochoa, you will leave the prisoner alone until I give further orders.”  
Aramis schooled his features so that none of his relief showed.  
“As for you,” Huerta continued. “You are a guest and will be treated accordingly but if you interfere in the running of this garrison again I will put you under guard.”  
Aramis bowed. “My apologies, Major. It won’t happen again.”  
TMTMTM  
Porthos had spent the night in the chair having insisted that Aramis needed a good night’s sleep to complete his recovery. Although he could sleep in most places he’d woken with a stiff neck and back, feeling unrested and irritable. It didn’t help knowing that d’Artagnan was likely being tortured for information while Aramis was forced to watch. At least the marksman had seemed more like his usual self. Porthos had been afraid of nightmares with the reminder of Savoy so close to the surface of his mind.  
His fierce glower kept the Spanish soldiers at a distance. After eating a bowl of porridge he stepped outside and began his reconnaissance. He walked a slow circuit of the wall. There was a gate at the rear which was unguarded but he discounted it. It was within view of the guards on the parapet walkway and was too far away from the main road to be of use.  
The main gate was reached through a short tunnel which cut through the thick stone walls. Two men guarded it at all times. Fortunately they weren’t visible to the half dozen guards manning the walls. It would be possible for him and Aramis to sneak up to the gate, dispatch the guards and open the doors without being seen. It would have to be quick and quiet which shouldn’t be a problem as surprise was on their side. The tricky part would be handling the men on the walls so that the Musketeers could cross the open ground without facing too much enemy fire. Of course as soon as shots sounded the whole garrison would be alerted so they would have to pray that Athos got his men here as swiftly as possible.  
Porthos returned to their room to find Aramis waiting for him. The marksman looked smug and far happier than he had been expecting. However, he also noted bruising that definitely hadn’t been there an hour earlier.  
“What happened to your face?”  
“I had a disagreement with Captain Ochoa.” Aramis’ fingers strayed to his jawline and he winced when he touched his tender skin.  
“I’m guessin’ he won.”  
“Not exactly.” The smirk was back.  
Porthos shook his head in exasperation at the almost monosyllabic answers. “Did you see d’Artagnan?”  
“Yes, and stopped his torture.”  
“You’ll have to explain that to me later. How is he?”  
The happiness drained from Aramis’ face. “He took a sword thrust to the shoulder and he’s been beaten pretty badly. I was able to treat the wound but it has become infected. We need to get him out of here tonight. Ochoa will be working on the Major to start the questioning again and d’Artagnan can’t take much more punishment. Did you manage to ascertain their strength?”  
“There are twenty-eight men that I’ve seen includin’ the Major and that bastard of a Captain. Eight are on guard duty at any time. The others include the cook, armourer and blacksmith. If we can get Athos through the gates they won’t be much of a problem.”  
“We’ll move an hour before dawn, get d’Artagnan out of his cell and then take care of the guards at the gate.”  
“Will the whelp be able to fight?”  
“He might be steady enough to shoot but he’s too weak for anything physical. He’ll have to hold back and stay out of sight.”  
“He’s not goin’ to like that.”  
“He doesn’t have a choice. You didn’t see him, Porthos.” Aramis’ expression hardened. “When the time comes Ochoa is mine.”  
TMTMTM  
Athos had moved his main force to a spot just out of sight of the fortress. He had one man in a vantage point watching the gates and waiting for the signal from his brothers. The waiting was hard and he’d barely slept the night before, instead spending his time keeping company with whoever was on guard duty.  
He had known that the war would open them up to new challenges but had been confident of facing them with his three brothers by his side. It was agonising to know that their youngest was a captive and that Aramis and Porthos were risking death to free him.   
Athos enjoyed strategizing, weighing every risk against the potential reward. This plan carried with it too many possible outcomes for him to be comfortable. It could all work exactly as Aramis described or could be an abject failure with the fortress standing strong against them. Other scenarios involved breaching the walls only to find one of more of his brothers dead.   
He wished he had vetoed the plan, but then how would they have rescued d’Artagnan? Should he simply have resigned himself to the fact that his young protégé was in Spanish hands and would remain so for the duration of the war? That was as unthinkable as leaving Aramis in his monastery. To be separated for years wasn’t a fate he was willing to endure.  
He sat with his back against a sun warmed rock and tried to distract his mind. He thought back to the fateful day when d’Artagnan had burst into their lives, demanding justice for his father’s death. He’d seen the raw potential that day although he hadn’t expected the young man to become a feature of their lives. He still wasn’t entirely sure how it had happened. Yes, he’d been grateful for the assistance in clearing his name, but he hadn’t encouraged the boy. That had been Aramis’ doing and he’d been teased unmercifully about his tendency to pick up strays.  
As the days had turned into weeks and then into months Athos had found himself growing closer to their newest recruit. He had nurtured d’Artagnan’s skills, honing them to a level where he was worthy of a commission. The day that commission had finally been bestowed was one of the proudest days of his life…the pride of an older brother in the achievements of the younger. He missed them all very badly.  
He closed his eyes against the glare of the sun, knowing that they wouldn’t be required to fight in daylight. Surely by now they had found d’Artagnan and were working on a plan to free him. The call to arms would likely come near dawn when the guards were weary and looking forward to their beds. He would ensure that his men were ready and waiting when it did.  
Tbc


	7. Chapter Seven

Casualty of War  
Chapter Seven  
They took it in turns to sleep. When it was his time on watch Aramis cleaned and loaded his pistols, grateful that the Major had ordered the return of their weapons. Then he methodically sharpened his sword and main gauche. Porthos came awake easily when he touched his friend on the shoulder.  
“Is it time?”  
“Yes.”  
Porthos rose from the bed and buckled on his weapons while Aramis eased the door open and peered out into the hallway.  
“All clear.”  
They walked quickly to the stairs and Aramis led the way down. There was no guard on d’Artagnan’s cell door. After all, who in the fortress would aid the prisoner and d’Artagnan himself was barely able to function.  
Aramis drew back the bolts and opened the door. “We need some light.”  
A lantern hanging on the wall was quickly appropriated and lit. It cast grotesque shadows around the small room and it took a moment to spot d’Artagnan cowering in a corner. Their young brother raised his hand to shield his eyes and pressed even further back against the wall.  
“D’Artagnan,” Aramis said.  
“It’s us, whelp,” Porthos added.  
D’Artagnan lowered his arm. “Aramis? Porthos?”  
“Aye, lad. We’re here to get you out.”  
“You came for me? I thought I had dreamt it.”  
“Did you doubt we’d come?” Aramis bent down to slip an arm around d’Artagnan’s waist. “Can you stand?” Now that he was close to his brother he could see d’Artagnan’s face was flushed with fever. His hands itched to inspect the shoulder wound even though he knew there was no time.  
D’Artagnan cooperated as much as he could and managed to rise to his feet. Porthos took over the task of steadying him while Aramis checked that their route was still clear.  
“Lean on me,” Porthos said. “Save your strength.”  
“What’s the plan?” d’Artagnan asked weakly.  
“It’s simple really. We open the gates and hold them until Athos and the others get here.” Aramis gestured that they should move. “You will stay safely out of sight.”  
“I can fight.”  
“No offence, d’Artagnan, but if Porthos let you go you’d fall on your face.”  
They made slow progress with Porthos taking most of d’Artagnan’s weight. When they reached the door leading to the courtyard they stopped.  
“We’ll hide you in the stables,” Aramis said, handing over a pistol. “Only use this if your life is threatened.”  
D’Artagnan gripped it shakily. “I understand.”  
Aramis stood guard at the door while Porthos and d’Artagnan made their way through the shadows to the stables. When Porthos returned Aramis grinned fiercely.  
“Ready?”  
They made their way to the gate, finding the two guards there half-asleep. Aramis’ main gauche buried itself in the chest of one while Porthos slit the throat of the other. It was quick, brutal, deadly and utterly silent. They pulled the bodies out of the way and lifted the heavy bar, throwing the gates wide. They both stared down the road, unconsciously holding their breath.  
They heard the pounding of hooves before they saw anything. Aramis clapped Porthos on the shoulder. “Hold the gate and God go with you, brother.”  
Shouts echoed from the walls as Aramis raced up the stairs leading to the walkway.  
“What is it?” he yelled in Spanish, his sword and pistol already in hand.  
“Soldiers,” one of the guards shouted.  
There was a barrage of gunfire from the Spanish and then Aramis was among them. He skewered the first man he reached and shot another in the chest. His actions distracted the Spanish from the approaching threat as all looked at him in disbelief. It didn’t take long for one of the soldiers to advance on him while the other three fumbled to reload their rifles. Knowing that he had bought precious seconds for his comrades he launched an attack.  
The approaching Musketeers were now returning fire and he had to duck as a bullet struck the wall near his head. A shard of stone flew off and caught him on the cheek. He felt blood begin to flow down his face and into his beard.  
His opponent was skilled, thrusting and parrying with ease. There was a special challenge in fighting on a three foot wide ledge with a sheer drop on one side. He could hear voices now in the courtyard and knew he had to finish the fight before reinforcements arrived behind him. He feinted left, drew his main gauche and thrust under the soldier’s guard. The wound wasn’t fatal but it was enough to cause the man to stumble to the side, lose his balance and fall. Aramis spun just in time to parry a sword thrust from behind. He settled into a fighting stance, the battle calm descending over him.  
Despite all his years of experience and his skill he quickly became fatigued. The extreme heat he’d been exposed to had weakened his body and he found himself struggling to meet the attack of his opponent. He was in danger of losing the fight when the Musketeers reached the fortress and thundered into the courtyard. It distracted his enemy and Aramis took full advantage. His sword pierced the man’s body causing the soldier to fall to his knees, his sword tumbling from his grip.  
Aramis looked down. Dozens of horses were milling around, raising a dust cloud that obscured his view. He stayed where he was. He wasn’t needed in the fight and to throw himself into the midst of it would only risk being killed inadvertantly by his own side.  
“Aramis!”  
Athos call alerted him to another foe but then a pistol sounded and the soldier fell to the ground. Aramis grinned and raised a hand in greeting. The fight was ending, superior numbers and the element of surprise conspiring to overcome resistance. Those Spaniards still alive were throwing down their swords and surrendering.  
When he was satisfied everything was under control he walked wearily down the steps, his gaze skittering around as he looked for Athos and Porthos. He found Athos facing Major Huerta who looked shocked at his sudden reversal of fortune.  
“You are well?” Athos asked him.  
“I am as you see.”  
Shock turned to outrage on the Major’s face. “You are a Frenchman!”  
Aramis bowed. “Aramis of the King’s Musketeers at your service.”  
“Where is d’Artagnan,” Athos asked, ignoring the Major’s spluttering protests about underhanded tricks.  
“In the stables. He wasn’t fit to fight.”  
“I think you are wrong about that,” Athos said fondly. He gestured to his right where d’Artagnan was unsteadily making his way through the crowd, a sword held loosely at his side.  
“Foolish boy,” Aramis said although there was no heat in his words.  
D’Artagnan reached them and Athos put out a hand to steady him. “I understand you were told to stay out of the fight,” he admonished.  
D’Artagnan shrugged. “One of the soldiers tried to hide in the stables. I took his sword and it seemed a shame not to use it.” He swayed precariously.  
“Come and sit down.” Aramis took his weight and led him over to a bench.  
Athos turned his attention back to Major Huerta. “You will surrender your command, Monsieur.”  
“It appears I have no option,” Huerta said bitterly. “You will treat my men well?”  
“As you treated my comrade?” Athos asked, flicking a glance to where Aramis fussed over d’Artagnan.  
“Our methods were excessive,” Huerta said turning red. “I hope you are a more honourable man.”  
Athos looked at him coldly. “I will forgive the implication. We don’t torture our prisoners. On that you have my word.”  
“He’s the one you should be blamin’ for d’Artagnan’s condition.” Porthos pushed his way through, one hand clamped around Ochoa’s arm.   
The Captain sneered at Athos. “You only prevailed through craven deception.”  
“Shut up.” Porthos shook him violently. “He’s the one who tortured d’Artagnan.”  
“Give him a sword.” Aramis returned to Athos’ side, fire burning in his eyes.  
“There’s no need…”  
“You didn’t see what he did. Give him a sword.”  
“We have surrendered,” Major Huerta said hastily.  
“He deserves no mercy.” Aramis pointed at d’Artagnan. “Look at him and then tell me this bastard deserves to live. I’m offering him fair combat. If he prevails he buys himself his life.”  
Athos pulled him to one side. “You are not recovered from your illness.”  
“I am well, Athos. I had to watch while they tortured d’Artagnan. It was one of the worst days of my life. Ochoa enjoyed inflicting pain and suffering and does not deserve to be treated with dignity. He should be executed for what he did. I am giving him a chance to live.”  
“At the expense of your own life.”  
“I have no intention of losing.”  
Athos nodded and turned back to Ochoa. “Do you accept the challenge?”  
“With pleasure.”  
“Very well. Porthos, give him your sword.”  
Porthos grumbled but pulled his sword from its scabbard and handed it over. The watching soldiery moved back to form a loose circle within which the combatants stood. D’Artagnan had left the bench and now stood beside Athos, his face pale and a fierce love for his brothers burning in his chest.  
Athos walked into the circle, staring first at Aramis and then at Ochoa. “The normal rules of chivalry apply. This is a fight to the death unless one of you chooses to surrender.” He stepped back. “Gentlemen. Begin.”  
Tbc


	8. Chapter Eight

Casualty of War

Chapter Eight

Under normal circumstances Athos would have bet everything he owned on Aramis winning. However, the marksman did not look well. He was steadier than he’d been when they initially parted company two days earlier but his face was grey with fatigue and Athos could see his hands shaking.

The Spanish Captain by contrast looked well rested and strong as he circled his opponent. A quick lunge tested Aramis’ reactions and found them wanting. A cut appeared on Aramis arm and began weeping blood. Aramis stepped back, his face registering shock. Then, with resolve, he moved forward to press his own attack. He drove the Captain back but couldn’t find an opening.

Athos continued an internal debate about the wisdom of letting the fight continue. He should have vetoed the reckless suggestion even though he knew Aramis wouldn’t have listened to him. Only force would have stopped the marksman.

“Can he win?” d’Artagnan asked softly.

“He will find a way to prevail.” Athos placed a comforting hand on the Gascon’s shoulder.

Porthos stood beside the young man, keeping him upright with an arm around his waist. “Aramis knows what he’s doin’” he said, although he sounded far from convinced.  
The fight continued with Aramis mostly on the defensive. He’d collected another cut, this time to his left leg. Ochoa seemed to be enjoying himself.

“Ochoa will kill your man if you don’t stop the fight,” Major Huerta said.

“I can’t interfere,” Athos replied even though his mind screamed at him to take action.

Aramis blocked a blow that would have sliced open his stomach and disengaged.

Ochoa’s smile broadened. “You will soon join your comrades in death. They made a pretty sight lying there with their throats slit.”

Aramis stilled. “That was you?”

“I led the patrol. We slaughtered them while they slept.”

“Oh, he’s just made a bad mistake,” Porthos mumbled. “Aramis won’t let that pass.”

There was a subtle change in Aramis’ demeanour and the lethargy left his limbs in a sudden rush of adrenalin. He attacked ferociously driving Ochoa back and catching him by surprise. For the first time in the fight Aramis scored a hit, tracing a thin line of red along the side of Ochoa’s torso. The surrounding Musketeers were silent, watching the fight with rapt concentration.

The speed and strength of Aramis’ attack continued to grow, his skill and determination starting to overwhelm his opponent. But, it couldn’t last. Both men were tiring quickly and Athos knew his friend had to finish it soon before the burst of energy dissipated.

Aramis must have sensed the same thing. A flurry of blows put Ochoa on the defensive and then Aramis struck. His sword penetrated Ochoa’s defence and Aramis buried it to the hilt in the Captain’s chest.

There was a collective gasp as the sword was wrenched from Ochoa’s body. The Spaniard collapsed without a sound and it looked like Aramis wouldn’t be able to keep his feet for much longer either. Athos rushed forward to catch his friend, preventing him from falling to the ground in a graceless heap.

There were scattered cheers which quickly died away under Athos’ stern glare. “Secure the prisoners,” he ordered. “And post a guard.”

Major Huerta stepped forward. “May we see to our fallen comrades?”

Athos nodded curtly, most of his attention focussed on his exhausted friend. “Is there an infirmary?” he asked.

“I will show you,” the Major said.

With Porthos supporting d’Artagnan and Athos holding Aramis up they made their way to a small room containing half a dozen beds. Aramis didn’t protest when he was deposited gently on one of the beds and urged to lie down. His thoughts were a long way from his present location. Images from six years ago mingled with the more recent sight of his slaughtered comrades. It was all he’d been able to see in the final moments of his fight with Ochoa. He didn’t even remember killing the man although he assumed he must have succeeded in his goal. A blanket was pulled up over his chest and he heard Athos’ voice telling him to sleep. He wanted to protest that the ghosts would come if he closed his eyes but his body refused to obey him and he slid into sleep.

TMTMTM

“Neither of ‘em is restin’ real peacefully,” Porthos said. He’d been sitting with them for the last hour while Athos saw to the disposition of his men.

Athos approached d’Artagnan first noting the staining on the bandage around his protégé’s shoulder. “I would guess he has an infection.”

The young man tossed restlessly in his sleep, his face flushed.

“We need Aramis’ expertise although I am reluctant to wake him.”

Their marksman lay on his back, eyes moving rapidly under closed lids.

“He’s dreaming,” Athos said. “And they aren’t good dreams.

Aramis looked as if he was in pain, his forehead creased into a ferocious frown.

“Is it any wonder?”

“No. The only surprise is that he held himself together this long.”

“D’Artagnan needs tendin’ to.”

“I know.” With reluctance Athos reached down and shook Aramis’ shoulder.

Aramis’ eyes opened sluggishly and Athos was disturbed to see a brief flash of fear on his friend’s face.

“You’re safe,” he said.

Aramis’ eyes focussed before he nodded and relaxed.

“I’m sorry to wake you but d’Artagnan needs your help.”

That succeeded in breaking through Aramis’ preoccupation. He scrambled up and sat on the edge of the bed to observe their youngest brother. “His shoulder wound is infected and his body’s exhausted from the torture. I treated him yesterday but he has been through much since then. Let me look at it.”

He stood somewhat unsteadily, dropping heavily down onto the side of d’Artagnan’s bed. The young man groaned weakly but didn’t awaken.

“Can you fetch me water and clean bandages?” Aramis asked Porthos. He unwound the soiled bandages and breathed more easily. “The wound is clean. See the edges? They’re red but yesterday was worse and the wound was weeping. I believe my ministrations might have headed off the worst of it.”

“How did you get permission to treat him?” Athos asked.

“I’d like to say I appealed to Ochoa’s better nature but he didn’t have one. No, I told him a dead prisoner couldn’t answer questions.”

“Was it bad?”

Aramis’ expression became closed. “Yes.”

“You saved his life with your mad plan,” Athos said, trying to dispel the air of sadness surrounding his friend.

“Yet six good men still died.”

“Not your fault.”

“If I’d got back to the camp sooner things might have been different.”

“You were ill. It’s a wonder you found your way back at all.”

“I was the senior Musketeer,” Aramis protested.

“Yes, but you weren’t in command. D’Artagnan was.”

There was a choked gasp from the man on the bed. Athos immediately realised how that had sounded and cursed his insensitivity. “D’Artagnan, it’s good to see you awake.”

“Yes.” D’Artagnan wouldn’t meet his gaze.

Porthos returned carrying a bowl of water and looked suspiciously from one to the other. “What’d I miss?”

“Nothing,” Aramis said quickly. “Except that d’Artagnan has woken up.”

Porthos laid down the bowl and smiled. “How’re you feeling?”

“I’m fine,” d’Artagnan muttered, keeping his eyes fixed firmly on his blanket.

“You are not fine,” Aramis admonished. “You still have a fever and your body has a spectacular array of bruises.” He wiped at the shoulder wound, being careful not to cause his brother unnecessary suffering. He could feel the tension in the air and understood its source. “The redness is receding,” he said to fill the awkward silence. “Your body is fighting off the fever. With rest and nourishment I believe you will make a complete recovery.”

That succeeded in raising d’Artagnan’s spirits although he kept darting uncertain looks at Athos.

“I will go and find you something to eat,” Aramis said. “Porthos, can you come with me? I am not as steady on my feet as I would like.”

“I can go,” Porthos offered.

“No, I feel the need to see the sunshine. With your aid I’m sure I can manage.” He shot a defiant look at Athos who was frowning darkly. “Athos can tend to our patient quite well on his own.”

“What am I missing?” Porthos asked, his suspicions rising again.

“Nothing at all my dear Porthos,” Aramis lied smoothly. D’Artagnan looked no more enthusiastic than Athos at the thought of being left alone with his mentor but Aramis easily ignored the naked plea in the pup’s dark eyes. He led the way out of the room and closed the door.

The silence stretched oppressively between the two men. Athos knew his thoughtless comment about d’Artagnan’s command would have been seen as a reproach when it had merely been a statement of fact.

“I let you down,” d’Artagnan said softly. He was gazing at his hands which were twisting the blanket into knots.

“Tell me what happened.”

“We were camped for the night. I was worried about Aramis so I took the first watch. I was distracted.”

“How many men attacked you?”

“I don’t know. There seemed to be many but I was overwhelmed before I could shout a warning. The knocked me unconscious and then…” d’Artagnan turned faintly green and swallowed to keep down the bile that was roiling in his stomach.

“If someone else had been on watch would you have blamed them?”

“It was my responsibility.”

“Yes, it was, but sometimes there is nothing we can do. I too have lost men under my command. If there is blame it ultimately rests with me.” Athos could see that his words were failing to convince the young man. “Tell me, knowing what you know now, what would you have done differently?”

“I could have doubled the guard.”

“You could and it would likely have made no difference. The Spanish know these mountains intimately.”

“We must have done something to attract their attention.” D’Artagnan was unwilling to let go of his guilt so easily.

“It was a routine night patrol. I asked Major Huerta. If it is of any consolation he did not approve of the slaughter of our brothers. He is a weak man, not a bad one. He is of the nobility and purchased his commission but I think he was not suited to a military life. The real power hear was Captain Ochoa.”

“That is hardly reassuring.”

“Except that Ochoa is dead.”

“What will you do now?”

“Strip them of their weapons and leave them here with a small guard. We can’t afford to be burdened with prisoners on our march. They pose no threat now and the main body of the army will reach here in the next few weeks. We have bought them safe passage.”

“The price was too high.”

“This is war, d’Artagnan. Men die.”

“They died needlessly."

“You have to let it go. I would have done nothing differently. Neither would Porthos or Aramis. You will write the letters to their families and move on.”

“Are you really that callous?”

“No, but I am practical. If we let every death destroy us then we aren’t fit to be soldiers.”

D’Artagnan’s tormented gaze finally met Athos’. “I will think in what you have said.”

Athos suppressed a sigh. They still had a long way to go before d’Artagnan learned how to forgive himself.

TMTMTM

For two days Aramis kept busy, falling into his bed at night too exhausted to dream. But, it couldn’t last. On their final night at the fortress the distant and recent past caught up with him. He was still occupying a bed in the infirmary in order to keep an eye on d’Artagnan. The young man was making slow but steady progress now that the infection was waning. He would be fit enough to travel with them when they left the next day.

Aramis fell asleep without difficulty, sleeping peacefully for several hours until his ghosts came to visit. The forest seemed different and he realised it was high summer. The glade was strewn with bones, not freshly killed bodies. He tried to protest that they hadn’t left the bodies for the scavengers but the words died in his throat when he realised there were bodies beneath the trees. He walked over hesitantly. The first was Marsac, his dead eyes full of accusation.

“You turned on your brother,” Marsac said.

Aramis stumbled backwards, tripping on a tree root and falling awkwardly to the ground. There was nothing he could say to refute the allegation. He had chosen Treville and killed his brother.

“Now look,” Marsac continued, “more of our brothers lie dead because you abandoned them.”

Aramis sat up and looked around. The six bodies were easily recognisable. He had kept vigil over them for a day and a night and their wounds were deeply ingrained on his soul. “That wasn’t my fault,” he protested but a chorus of denials from his dead comrades silenced him.

He felt panic start to build in his chest. He had to get away from this charnel house of memories. He tried to stand only to find he’d twisted his ankle in his fall. He hobbled painfully to the support of the nearest tree, tears springing to his eyes. Walking was nearly impossible and he realised that he was once again trapped with his dead brethren.

He came awake with a start, his heart pounding and his palms slick with sweat. He looked around wildly, only calming slightly when he saw that d’Artagnan was awake and looking concerned.

“You were crying out in your sleep,” d’Artagnan said.

Aramis swallowed, his mouth unaccountably dry. “Sorry I woke you,” he said haltingly.

“Nightmare?”

Aramis turned away. “Nothing more than a bad dream.”

“More than that I think. You called out Marsac’s name.”

“It is one of the hazards of war that old memories surface.”

“You found them,” d’Artagnan said, suddenly realising what had caused a resurgence of Aramis’ nightmares.

“I was sick from the heat. When I finally found the camp they were dead and you were missing. The Spanish had taken the horses so I had no option other than to wait for Athos to come and find us.”

“And it reminded you of Savoy.”

“Yes, but don’t worry about me, d’Artagnan. It will pass as it always does.”

“This is my fault.”

“No, my young friend it is the fortunes of war. You should listen to Athos. He and I have seen enough combat to know men die despite our best efforts.”

“What can I do to help?”

Aramis smiled faintly. “You, Athos and Porthos are all the help I need. Knowing my brothers are around me will chase away the dark memories.”

TMTMTM

When Athos came to wake them the next morning he found both in a deep and peaceful sleep. Loathe as he was to disturb them he was also anxious to get on the road. They roused readily enough and if both showed signs of a disturbed night he was wise enough not to comment.

They gathered in the courtyard a short time later and Athos gave last minute orders to the men who would stay behind. D’Artagnan arrived with a feeling of trepidation. This was the first time he’d seen his comrades since his rescue. Instead of being shunned for his failure as a commander he was welcomed with care and compassion. Warm smiles, pats on the back and quiet inquiries about his health helped to loosen the knot in his chest. He fell in between Aramis and Porthos taking comfort from the proximity of his brothers.

Once everyone was mounted Athos turned his horse to face them. “We have suffered our first losses of this war but have also achieved our first victory. Now is the time to take that knowledge deep into Spain.” He raised his voice. “For God and King Louis.”

His cry was echoed by the entire regiment as he turned to lead them to a war from which many would not return.

The End


End file.
